


Shield and Armour

by Carmarthen



Category: Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[A Star Wars fusion, Original Trilogy era.] Imperial Cadet Tybalt Capulet has known since they were children that his cousin Julia carries the Jedi curse just as he does, a secret that would lead to the family's downfall and worse, her death, if the wrong person found out. Unfortunately, Julia has never taken his warnings as seriously as she should have.</p><p>When lieutenant governor Count Paris visits and takes an interest in young Julia, Tybalt must resort to any distraction he can think of to keep Paris from noticing anything unusual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shield and Armour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RatherCharmingVermin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatherCharmingVermin/gifts).



> Promptfic that got a little out of hand: "Paris/Tybalt, Star Wars AU. Tybalt has to prevent Paris from finding out about force sensitive Julia, hijinks and contrived distractions ensue."
> 
> Sadly a little short on hijinks, but definitely contains a contrived distraction. (And some repressed Tybalt->Julia, because I'm predictable.)

When Julia was five, Tybalt had found her in the garden of the family’s skyhook, giggling as fallen leaves swirled around her in a graceful whirlwind of blue and scarlet and orange.

At first he had just stared, trying to make sense of it—they’d just been stirred up by her dress as she spun (to a height nearly a meter over her head), or a malfunction in the air handling system (the ambient breeze was so light it scarcely rustled the grasses). Then, as she held out her arms and cried, “Tybalt, come play with me,” the fear had gripped him, making him rough as he ran to her, gathering her up in his arms and shaking her a little. “Julia, _listen to me,_ ” he said, “you must never, ever let anyone see you do that again. Promise me.”

He only realized he was crying when she looked up at him with her too-big eyes in her round little face and burst into tears.

It was bad enough to have one of them in the family. Bad enough that he carried the curse, when he was bound for the Imperial Academy when he reached majority. But for Julia—he would have turned himself in as a traitor in a moment if he could have spared her this burden.

“I promise,” she said into his neck, between her sobs.

* * *

He caught her a few more times, when she thought she was alone in the gardens, or as she grew older, when she was reading, so deep into her novel that she didn’t realize she was stirring her tea with a thought instead of a spoon. Every time she looked up with a guilty start, as if he’d tapped her on the shoulder, and stopped. He never said anything to her about it again. She’d understood. And he didn’t like to think about the curse, especially since the more he thought about it, the more he found their dreams tangled together.

At first it was innocent enough—sometimes he’d find himself dreaming in fragments of walking hand-in-hand with Julia’s nurse, or lying on his back in the garden watching the shuttle traffic passing by outside the environmental dome. They were jumbled together with a dream of arguing with his father about something ridiculous, or standing on a high ledge, gripping a vibroblade in his hand but unable to move, even though he knew someone—something—was coming for him, out of the darkness. Someone else’s day, someone else’s dreams, mixed with his own. He woke sweating and unsettled, hoping that none of his own fears had reached Julia’s sleeping mind, and sat cross-legged in his rumpled sheets, trying to meditate.

He’d read somewhere that meditation calmed and strengthened the mind, and maybe if he just tried hard enough he could keep his mind _in_ his mind, where it ought to be.

Later, as Julia blossomed out of girlhood, came the other dreams, about Julia herself, the ones that made him stumble blindly to the ‘fresher and turn the water shower on full heat, until steam filled the cubicle and his skin felt like it was about to peel off, even though he knew his uncle would lecture him about the strain on the water ‘cylers.

At breakfast Julia smiled at him like always, no shadow tainting her innocence, and Tybalt vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let that change.

He moved his sleeping quarters to the opposite end of the house, applied himself to his studies, and tried not to think of Julia at all, save when he had to. She might look at him as if he had abandoned her, but that was nothing to how she would have looked at him if she knew what lurked in his dreams. She must never know. 

It was a relief to leave for the Academy.

* * *

He’d thought Julia _understood,_ not only to keep her power secret, but not to use it. It was dangerous, he knew that much, so dangerous that twenty years earlier the Empire had hunted the galaxy for everyone who wielded it. The thought of her becoming corrupted by it was unbearable, unthinkable.

So what could _possibly_ have possessed her to be doing...whatever she was doing...to summon every damned rdava-bird in the skyhook garden to fly around her like some kind of ridiculous Jedi princess in the terrible contraband children’s serials they’d watched when they were too young to know better? All she needed was a lightsabre at her hip—the vision was so clear, so vivid, that Tybalt staggered a little and caught himself against the balcony railing, waving off Count Paris’s murmur of concern and proffered hand. Julia, truly grown up, her rich brown hair cropped short and flowing gowns exchanged for tunic and trousers and boots, a glowing sword held before her in both hands. Her mouth was fixed in a resolute line as she glared at someone—perhaps Tybalt himself. It felt real, more real than Paris or the garden or the stupid birds, which Julia had finally released from their thrall to flutter away into the bushes again. Nausea roiled in his belly and he swallowed down bile.

“My goodness,” Paris murmured, putting a companionable hand on his arm. “What curiously orderly wildlife you have here, cadet.”

Tybalt forced a smile, which made Paris remove his hand and step back a little. “My cousin.” Tybalt blinked away the vision, trying not to shiver. “She feeds them.”

Rdava-birds weren’t very smart; no amount of feeding could convinced them to fly in bloody _formation._ Thankfully, Paris didn’t seem likely to have a particular passion for natural history. Over the course of this particular visit, Tybalt had found the lieutenant governor of Ladrone to be interested primarily in alcohol, food, and House Capulet’s assortment of exquisitely costumed and well-trained dancers, all beautiful and at the pinnacle of their arts, both artistic and sensual. Paris probably didn’t know a rdava-bird from a Mandalorian shriek-hawk.

Let him be content with the dancers—any of them seemed ready to be dazzled by Paris’s charm and wealth, the potential promise of a post in peaceful Ladrone—Inner Rim, practically in the Core, if you'd never actually been to the Core—where they were considerably less likely to be knifed in the street over a disagreement between their employers. Let him be content and forget about Julia and the birds, Tybalt thought, and tried to look bored.

“Your cousin?” Paris was still smiling, perfectly polite, but something in it made Tybalt’s skin itch and a hot rage rise up in the back of his mind. He remembered Paris’s gaze lingering on the newest dancer, a slim, dark-haired young woman who looked not unlike Julia from a distance, and he clenched his hands into fists. “A lovely creature, to be sure. But then, your family seems to breed them uncommonly beautiful.” He was looking at Tybalt now, a little smirk on his lips, a slow look that swept over Tybalt’s body in his dress grays, lingering on his mouth. His thoughts spoke even louder than his eyes, and so Tybalt knew it was not Lady Capulet he was imagining spread naked across the guest bed in the green suite when he continued, “Your aunt, for example, is a stunning woman.”

“Yes,” said Tybalt in a strangled voice, cursing the flush that heated his cheeks. Paris was—not unattractive, but—

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Julia reaching over her head for a fruit just out of reach, and he _knew_ what she was going to do, he could hear her thinking it as clearly as if she’d been standing new to him speaking aloud. He’d have words for her later, whether she wanted to hear them or not, but now there was no time to stop her. _Paris must not see._

As panic rose to tighten his throat, he did the only thing he could think of: he reached out and caught Paris by his embroidered collar, slipped an arm behind his back, and dipped him into a kiss, rough and a bit awkward. It was strange to kiss someone whose moustache tickled his cheek, but after a moment of surprise, Paris sank a hand into Tybalt’s hair and kissed him back with enthusiasm.

The fantasies unspooling from his unguarded thoughts were—comprehensive, creative, and filthy, but surprisingly pleasant. Maybe, Tybalt thought, this was exactly what they both needed.

“Well,” Paris said as Tybalt eased him back to stand upright. “I didn’t expect…that is...you know I have no say in your assignment, right?” 

They were still pressed together, in the shelter of the house, and finally out of sight of the garden below. _Enough of your games,_ Tybalt thought as hard as he could at Julia, and hoped she heard. Just because Paris was no longer watching didn’t mean she wouldn’t be seen by a passing gardener or worse, one of Paris’s staff. “I don’t care about my assignment." Tybalt crowded Paris back against the wall, pressing them together from knee to chest. This close, he could tell that Paris wore scent, something faintly woody, with a sharp salty note to it that reminded Tybalt of summer trips to the inland sea; nothing floral or feminine about it. Arousal had always been easy for him; too easy, perhaps, but just now he had no need to fight it.

Paris smiled again, letting his hands slip down to rest on Tybalt’s hips. “Then I must allow you to choose, as my host: your room or mine?”

**Author's Note:**

> And yes, this is definitely a pre-fix-it. :-) Of some kind.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Signal Disruption](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593899) by [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen)




End file.
